Friday, June 28, 2013

Harriet Klausner typed her name -- the perfect ending to her latest
three-paragraph plot summary on Amazon. She clicked the "Preview
Your Review" button, wondering for the 29,000th time why the button was
there. Why on earth would anyone look at a review before submitting
it? She clicked the "post your review" button, got the
confirmation screen, clasped her hands together with glee. Time to
"speed read" some more books.

"Eric," she said, raising her voice just a bit. "Can you
bring me some books?"

"Not now, Mother. I'm busy listing the last bunch for sale on
half.com," Eric said from the kitchen.

"Stanley," she said. "Go get me some more books."

No answer. Harriet glanced at the clock. It was 3AM. Stanley
was probably asleep. He'd been up late practicing the latest play he was
putting on with the neighborhood children. Harriet sighed. Now that
school was out, Stanley and the kids would be practicing nearly every night.
She'd have to retrieve her own boxes of books for the foreseeable future.
With difficulty, she raised herself out of her favorite armchair and hobbled
into the spare bedroom that served as a staging area for her
"reviewing" activities.

Harriet reached through the door, figuring she'd just pick the first box her
hands encountered and abscond with her prize back to the living room. Her
hands met with nothing but air. Startled, she groped for the light
switch, flipped it, blinked a few times. Her heart began to
palpitate. She saw the guest bed, she saw the dresser, she saw the
nightstand next to the bed. But where were all the boxes of books?

She picked her way through the cluttered living room, around stacks of advice
books on pregnancy and marriage, around a pile of engaging epic fantasies, to
get to the kitchen. Eric looked up from the computer, removed his
earbuds.

"I gave you ONE job," Harriet said.

"Yeah, Mother. I know. I'm doing it."

"Argh! That's not what I meant! Where are all the books?"

"What books, Mother?"

"The new ones. The ones that publishers send me for free."

"Haven't been any lately."

"What?" Harriet sagged back against the wall.

"What I said. No deliveries lately."

"But I need to ‘REVIEW.’ That's what I do!"

"Well, I can't help you at 3AM, Mother."

"Ungrateful little --" But Eric had put his earbuds back in.

Harriet went back to the spare bedroom. Surely there were some books
hiding in here somewhere. She walked over to the dresser, opened one of
the drawers. Nothing. Opened the second drawer. Again,
nothing. Panicked, she pulled the third drawer all the way out, turned it
upside down, cast it aside on the floor when she found it, too, to be
empty. She did the same with the fourth and fifth drawers. When it
became apparent that the dresser wasn't hiding any advance review copies,
Harriet turned around to stare at the bed.

Ten minutes later, her husband Stanley found her rolling on the floor next to
the bed, tangled up in the comforter, clutching a small, dust-covered box of books
from Harlequin tightly in her arms.

"It's 3:30 in the morning, Harriet," he said. "Come to
bed."

"Books! I found books," Harriet said.

"I see that, dear."

"Must. 'Review.' Books."

"Well, at least let me help you up. You can't ‘review’ while you're
lying on the floor."

Stanley rolled his eyes. "Look, Harriet. I'm just going to
take the box of books and put it on the nightstand. I'll help you up, and
then you can have it back. You'll be able to see it the whole time."

"All right," Harriet said. Reluctantly, she let Stanley take
the box. True to his word, he set it on the nightstand and reached out a
hand to help her up. When she was finally upright once again, Stanley
groaned and rested one hand against the wall, put the other on the small of his
back.

Harriet grabbed the box, looked at Stanley, furrowed her brow. "Are
you all right?"

Prize clutched in her arms, Harriet waddled back to the living room, Stanley
all but forgotten. She plopped back into her favorite armchair, used a
jagged fingernail to slit the tape on the box. Her nail clippers had been
lost years ago, but really, who had time to clip her nails AND be Amazon's
Number One Hall of Fame Reviewer?

Ah, the scent of unread books. Harriet couldn't get enough of it.
She inhaled deeply, removed the first one from the box. Holding the book
in her left hand, she flipped the pages with her right thumb, displaying a
smooth skill that would've made a Vegas blackjack dealer jealous. She
watched the page numbers in the upper right corner magically increase.
And -- done! Harriet looked at the clock. Nine seconds -- a
personal best. Time to "write" a "review."

With the Harlequin paperback in one hand, Harriet stepped over a pile of
fast-paced police procedurals, skirted around a mountain of cozy mysteries
featuring plucky amateur sleuths, and side-stepped a tumbling stack of
paranormal romances to arrive at her computer chair. She double-clicked
the DragonDictate icon on her desktop, flipped the book over, and began to
speak. Three paragraphs, one RELISH, a couple of still fans, two
"years old" errors, and one SUB-GENRE later, she declared herself
done. She chose the blue "e" from her Start Menu and up popped
Amazon.com.

Harriet typed the book's title into Amazon's search box. She didn't get
any hits. She tried again. Still nothing. She balled up her
fists and frowned.

She heard something in the kitchen. Eric must've taken a break from his
half.com listing duties.

"Eric," she said, "come here. Now."

"Yes, Mother." He sounded impudent. She'd have to talk to him
about that at some point. But who had time, with all these books to
"review?"

Eric materialized at Harriet's side. "What is it, Mother?"

"Help me find this book on Amazon. I typed the title but it won't
show up."

Eric glanced at the book cover, then squinted to get a better look at the
screen. "Well, no wonder. You spelled it wrong. That
word? It's supposed to be 'rescue,' not 'recuse.'"

"Don't get smart with me."

"You asked for my help." Eric looked at Harriet for a moment,
then shrugged. "Never mind. I'll just find the page for
you."

Eric's search was successful. "I'm going to bed now," he said.

"But I'll have more books to list on half.com in a few minutes."

"I'll get to them tomorrow. Unlike some people in this house, I need
sleep."

Loath as she was to admit it, Harriet needed sleep, too. Halfway through
composing the "review" for the second of four books from the
Harlequin box, she slumped forward over her keyboard.

Stanley and Eric found her there the next morning.

"Should we wake her?" Stanley asked, his voice barely audible.

"No," Eric said. "I'll walk the dogs and you feed the
cats. Maybe she'll stay knocked out for a little while."

"I can suggest later that we watch a movie," Stanley said.

"Good idea. But she'll probably try to 'read' and 'review' while the
movie is playing."

"Not if it stars Harry Reems."

"Do you have any idea how disgusting it is to think about your own mother
watching that stuff?" Eric asked.

"Listen, do you want to keep her busy for awhile or don't you? I
haven't seen any packages coming lately and neither have you. Now that
I'm retired, I don't have the funds to buy all the books she wants."

"Doesn't the Vine e-mail come out today?" Eric asked.

Stanley's eyes lit up. "It does. Late Harvest, too. I
want you to get online and choose every single book that's available."

Eric returned from walking the dogs to find Harriet up and about. Was she
-- actually MOVING books out of the way? He could see the sofa for the
first time in twelve years. He just stood there staring, mouth open.

"Hello, Eric," Harriet said.

"Hello, Mother. Um, what's -- what's going on?"

"Oh. I've invited a few friends over."

"You've WHAT?" The Klausner household hadn't entertained guests
since October of 1999. He put his hand out, intending to catch the wall
and steady himself. Unfortunately for Eric, what he actually made contact
with was a stack of hardcover zombie novels. The stack gave way, and Eric
fell with it.

Harriet didn't seem to notice either Eric's fall or the giant cloud of dust it
raised. "I've invited a few friends over. We're going to solve
a MYSTERY."

Eric stood up, dusted himself off. "You're going to solve a
mystery."

"That's what I said."

"What mystery is that?"

"The mystery of the missing packages."

"Missing packages?"

"Eric, are you dense? There are no more packages in the spare
bedroom. I intend to find out why."

"I see."

"Eric, where are you going?"

"I -- I promised I'd help Dad build sets for the play." He
hadn't, but he wanted to get the heck out of the house before these
"guests" arrived. Any excuse would do.

A few more minutes and Harriet declared her cleaning complete. It would
be 7 PM when her guests arrived. Would they be expecting dinner?
Well, that wouldn't be a problem. Harriet went to the hall closet and
pulled out the TV trays. She put three in front of the sofa, one near the
computer chair, and one in front of her favorite armchair. She caught a
glimpse of her reflection in the hallway mirror.

"Better change clothes," she said to herself. "I
know! I'll put on my black velour sweatsuit. With the pink
t-shirt."

Dressed, with her hair pulled back, Harriet felt like a different person.
Like the heroine of an engaging, entertaining chick lit mystery. No, make
that an engaging, entertaining, CULINARY chick lit mystery. Harriet went
out to the garage, knocked a stack of cookbooks out of the way, and rummaged
through the deep freezer until she found five matching frozen dinners.
Success.

Her guests had better appreciate her efforts. Cleaning, getting dressed,
and a full 20 minutes of cooking, because try as she might, only one frozen
dinner would fit in the microwave at a time.

Something was bothering her, though -- no packages had been delivered again
today. Well, she and her "reviewing circle" would get to the
bottom of it.

Harriet had just placed the last microwaved dinner on a TV tray when the
doorbell rang. Beaming, she answered the door.

Harriet shrugged. There was a woman sitting in the car. The rest of
the street was empty except for the large brown delivery truck parked out
front.

Not fifteen seconds after the door closed, the doorbell rang again.

"Wait right here, Rebecca W.," Harriet said.

"I told you, I'm not Rebecca --"

Harriet opened the door again. The woman who had been in the car had
gotten out and had come to the door. "Hello, Harriet," she
said.

Harriet was puzzled. She looked at the newcomer, back at the previous
arrival, then back at the newcomer again.

"I'm Rebecca W.," the newcomer said.

Harriet furrowed her brow. "You two look alike," she said.

"Pure coincidence," Rebecca W. said.

"Yeah. We've never met before," Dominique B. said.

"If you say so." Harriet shook her head as if to clear her
thoughts. "Well, welcome to my home. I've prepared us a
fabulous dinner of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, and carrots with
peas."

The doorbell rang again. "The living room's that way."
Harriet used her thumb to point back over her shoulder. Rebecca W. and
Dominique B. disappeared from view. Harriet opened the door again.
"You are?"

"Ellen, don't you remember? By the way, there's a pair of legs
sticking out from behind your bushes."

Ellen carried a massive tote bag. Harriet could see the handle of a large
pair of scissors poking up out of the bag. "Ellen.
Right. Well, the living room is that way. And keep those scissors
away from my books."

Ellen squeezed past Harriet -- hard to do, when both sides of the front hallway
were lined with double stacks of books. The doorbell rang one final time.

"And you must be Diana," Harriet said when she answered the door.

"That's right."

"So kind of you to answer my e-mail."

"I'm glad to help out." She sniffed the air. "It
smells a little strange out here. Did an animal die behind your
bushes? Oh, by the way, I LOVE your reviews of cozy mysteries."

Harriet blushed and smiled. "Why, thank you."

"If you ever have any that you don't have time to get to, I'd be glad to
--"

"I am a 'speed reader.' I always have time."

Diana and Harriet were silent for a moment, stared each other down.
"Well, let's get to the business at hand, shall we?"

Diana nodded. She and Harriet joined the others in the living room.

Rebecca W. had, unfortunately, sat down in Harriet's favorite armchair.
This would never do. Harriet approached the chair, put her hands on her
hips. When Rebecca W. didn't immediately move, Harriet cleared her
throat. Rebecca W. looked up. "Oh, this must be your favorite
chair. I'm sorry. I'll just move to the sofa."

Harriet nodded. Dominique B. scooted to the very edge of the sofa;
Rebecca W. plopped down in the center, leaving plenty of distance between
herself and Dominique B.

Ellen poked at the microwave dinner with a fork.

Harriet, now ensconced in her armchair, clapped her hands. "Eat
up!"

"Um, I hope you didn't go to any trouble just for us," Dominique B.
said.

"It was nothing."

"You're so creative, Harriet. This looks just like a Swanson Hungry
Man dinner from 1975," Rebecca W. said.

"Well, just between us, it IS a Swanson Hungry Man dinner from the
1970s. Can't be sure of the year, though," Harriet said.

Diana, who'd been chewing on a bite of Salisbury steak, began to choke.
Rebecca W. slapped her on the back a few times. A brown chunk flew from
her mouth and landed in the middle of the floor. A cat darted out from
behind a stack of tender Amish family dramas to sniff at the morsel, then
attempted to bury the nearly four-decade-old beef by furiously brushing the
carpet with its front paws. This was followed by the entrance of a small
dog, which sniffed the regurgitated meat, lifted its leg, and let loose a
stream of urine.

"Aren't you going to clean that up?" Dominique B. asked.

"Eh, it didn't get on any of the books," Harriet said. She took
another mouthful of mashed potatoes. "This could use some
seasoning. Anybody else care for some RELISH?" She looked from
face to face, got a couple of polite head shakes. She stood.
"Well, I want some relish. I'll be right back." Harriet
disappeared into the next room.

"What on earth are we doing here?" Rebecca W. asked.

"I don't know, Rebecca W.," Dominique B. said.

"Why are you two pretending not to know each other?" Diana
asked. "We all know you're mother and daughter."

"We're not pretending not to know each other," Rebecca W. said.
"We've always been open about our relationship."

"In fact, we wrote a book together. We've even reviewed each other's
books on Amazon," Dominique B. said.

"You know that's against the rules, right?" Diana said.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Midwest Book Review is a much worse
offender," Ellen said. It was difficult to see her sitting over at
the computer chair. A peculiar sound came from her direction -- like a
pair of scissors cutting paper.

Harriet returned, lugging the biggest jar of pickle relish any of her guests
had ever seen. "Stanley bought it for me at Costco. Two
gallons. I hope it's enough." The jar was half-full.
Harriet sat back down in her armchair, unscrewed the lid of the jar, and poured
relish straight from the jar all over her TV dinner. She put the lid back
on, set the jar down, and dug into her meal with renewed vigor. Dominique
B. gagged just watching Harriet.

"So, Harriet, why did you bring us here?" Diana asked.

Harriet dropped her fork. "What is that sound?"

"What sound?" Ellen asked.

Harriet stood so abruptly that her relish-laden Hungry Man dinner slid off her
TV tray and onto the floor. She turned towards Ellen and pointed.
"THAT sound."

"Oh, that?" Ellen asked. "I'm making altered books."

"You're doing WHAT?"

"Making altered books." Ellen held up a hardcover novel out of
which she'd created a clever scene by clipping out sections of pages to form
three-dimensional figures.

Harriet clasped her chest, fell back into her chair. "I'm having
cardiac arrest."

"It's just a book," Ellen said. "You get tons of free
ones. What's the big deal?"

"Get out," Harriet said. "All of you, just get out."

Dominique B. shrugged. "All right."

One by one, Harriet's guests followed a path between stacks of puzzle books,
college guides, and health reference manuals to escape the living room.
Harriet reserved a particularly nasty stare for Ellen.

Harriet heard the door open, happened to turn her head to the right, saw
flashing red and blue lights. What was this? She struggled out of
her armchair once again and walked to the door, tripping over a pile of
action-packed, futuristic science fiction and medieval Scottish romances and
having to steady herself against a precarious stack of middle school books.

Eric and Stanley stood on the doorstep, talking to a police officer. Two
paramedics guided a stretcher with a body bag on it down the sidewalk.
"What's going on?" she asked.

"Evening, ma'am," the officer said. "It appears the UPS
man had a heart attack and died during an attempt to deliver packages to
you. Can you tell me if you saw or experienced anything unusual in the
past couple of days?"

"I didn't get my books."

"Excuse me?"

Harriet pointed to her chest. "I am Amazon's Number One Hall of Fame
Reviewer. I 'review' books. Only, I didn't get enough of them this
week."

"Didn't get enough of them?" the officer asked. "Do you
mean the publishers send you advance copies?"

"Disclosure is for chumps," Harriet said. She craned her neck
to look out the door and behind the bushes.

"Aha!" she said. "Books!" She was surprisingly
nimble as she sprang behind the bushes. When she stood up, she was
holding three boxes. "Not even damp. Eric, you'll have some
listing to do in the morning."

"Don't you even care that the UPS man died in front of your house and you
didn't notice for days?" the police officer asked.

But Harriet didn't care. Harriet had her ARCs. And that was all
that mattered.

"But rest assured she can cut
the motor on her enthusiasm when necessary. 'I give Ralph McInerny, the author
of the 'Father Dowling' mysteries, a low rating and tell why I can't stand the
books,' says Ms. Klausner, who's contributed reviews to Amazon since 2000. 'It's
basically the same story over and over.'"

5.0
out of 5 stars A very entertaining amateur sleuth novel July 2,
2003By Harriet Klausner #1 HALL OF FAMEFormat:HardcoverFather Roger
Dowling, the priest of St. Hilary's church in Fox River, Illinois, is rather
shocked when Eleanor Wygnant who is not a member of his congregation, asks him
to stop Jessica Bernardo from writing a book about her family. Realizing that
Jessica's doings are not his concerns, he refuses to talk to the woman. The
Bernardos are going through a difficult time of it right now with the patriarch
of the family hospitalized and not expected to survive.His son Raymond, who
he hasn't seen in a decade, returns home knowing that his father despises his
for leaving the priesthood and running away to California with a woman he later
marries. Eleanor is worried that once Raymond's father dies, the love letter she
wrote him during an affair will become public and hurt her sister-in-law.
Raymond's younger brother Andrew, a college teacher with tenure is being held in
jail on a homicide charge. Father Dowling doesn't think Andrew is guilty and
sets about to prove it.

LAST THINGS is a very entertaining amateur sleuth
novel starring a protagonist who is so likable readers will feel an immediate
bond with him. Much of this novel is a relationship drama starring the Bernardo
family and it is only the last quarter when the mystery really takes off. In
fact, this is one Father Dowling mystery in which the popular priest plays a
secondary albeit important role. Ralph McInerny has written another pleasing who
done it.

4.0
out of 5 stars Father Dowling flock will enjoy July 8, 2002By
Harriet Klausner #1 HALL OF FAMEFormat:HardcoverFather Roger Dowling
leaves St. Hilary's Parish for his annual retreat with the Athanasians, a
Catholic religious order that includes seven aging priests with no new blood in
years. Though the long-term outlook appears to be the same as what happened to
the Shakers, the small order owns the rights to Marygrove, a grand estate near
Chicago given to the Athanasians by a late business mogul.However, the very
value of the property makes Marygrove in demand by avarice phonies including the
grandson of the order's late benefactor. All of these souls want to use the
estate for personal gain. Though each one of these outsiders will do almost
anything to obtain an advantage, one of them resorts to murder, killing two
people. Father Dowling investigates the homicides in an effort to determine who
broke the Commandment and to thwart any other slayings.

The insight into
a small dying religious order and their secular squabbles provide interesting
depth to the who-done-it story line. Though Father Dowling remains a charming
character he seems less sharp in PRODIGAL FATHER than usual perhaps because Mrs.
Murkin is not around much to murky the waters. Still the Father Dowling flock
will enjoy his latest amateur sleuth tale.

5.0
out of 5 stars thought provoking Father Dowling mystery August 9,
2008By Harriet Klausner #1 HALL OF FAMEFormat:HardcoverOn Ash
Wednesday, just out of prison Nathaniel Green, who killed his wife ten years ago
when he pulled the plug on the life support machine so she could go to heaven,
asks the pastor of St. Hilary's if he will put ashes on his forehead though he
is no longer a Catholic. He gave up on religion when his beloved Florence
suffered from terminal cancer and kept alive by so called caring people when she
just wanted to die.

Nathaniel and Florence belonged to St. Hilary before
he committed euthanasia. Some people especially Florence's sister do not want to
turn the other cheek and let him return to the flock. They condemn him for
murdering his spouse quoting the bible and the Ten Commandments. On the other
hand Father Dowling understands why a human would act mercifully to end the
suffering of a loved one although he feels deeply that it is still is a sin. As
the parish divides over the issue of mercy killing, Dowling begins to see some
incongruence in what he hears happened a decade ago; as he quietly investigates
he begins to wonder if Nathaniel actually pulled the plug or is covering for
someone.

This is a thought provoking Father Dowling mystery; perhaps the
best in years as everyday people struggle with the difficult and complex issue
of euthanasia; the St. Hilary congregation is divided over the subject and the
killer. The story line is fast-paced once the whisper campaign begins that Green
is out of prison and home and never slows down as he is shunned while he reads
Crime and Punishment seeking absolution, but for what asks Father
Dowling?

4.0
out of 5 stars fine compilation January 29, 2009By Harriet Klausner
#1 HALL OF FAMEFormat:HardcoverThis anthology contains fourteen stories
published between 1995 and 1998, and one entry in 2000. The usual players
besides the title lead character show up as does his housekeeper Marie, and
police captain Phil Keegan. All take place in Fox River, Illinois in or near St.
Hilary's church. Each tale is well written and fun to read with Father Dowling's
usual amusing asides and witty intelligent commentaries on life enhance the
collection. The short story format is a terrific method for the Father Dowling
mysteries as he provides his compassionate solace to the flock and others while
also solving cases that prove to the reader to kill or steal is human, but to
catch the felon is divine. Fans of the series will fully appreciate this fine
compilation of the short cases of Father Dowling as the format is
heavenly.

4.0
out of 5 stars fine whodunit August 24, 2006By Harriet Klausner #1
HALL OF FAMEFormat:HardcoverNPR host of End Notes Gregory Barrett visits
his former seminary classmate Father Dowling for the first time in years seeking
his help. Apparently, a woman he swears he never met Madeline Murphy has just
been led to remember that he sexually abused her when he still was a priest and
claims he is the father of her child. Dowling thinks that is quite a memory gap
as Gregory left the priesthood twenty-five years ago. Madeline is suing Gregory
and the archdiocese.

Dowling has doubts that Barrett sired Murphy's
child, but agrees to look into the matter as he knows that most people today
prefer to believe the priest is guilty of being a sexual predator. Also looking
into the accusations is wannabe author Ned Bunting, who is working on a tell-all
exposure book about the church sexual scandals. Not long after meeting with
Barrett, Father Dowling learns that Bunting was murdered and fears his friend
might be the culprit; but if not Barrett, most likely another priest fearing
exposure.

Although the topic is interesting and clearly current, twisting
the story line from the relevancy to a murder mystery adds suspense but leaves
the key players (besides Dowling), Barrett, Murphy, and Bunting, underdeveloped.
Thus Father Dowling works his magic, but concentrates more so on the homicide
than on whether a priest acted as a sexual predator. Well written as always, THE
PRUDENCE OF FLESH is one of those could have been great, but instead is a fine
whodunit for series fans only.